Of Moments Past
by entercreativename
Summary: Ever have a dream you can't escape? House is stuck in his mind after a brush with a Vicodin overdose and needs to save the love of his life. But who is she? Please R&R. HouseStacy, HouseCameron, HouseWilson friendship.
1. The One

OF MOMENTS PAST

by entercreativename

Disclaimer - Wish I owned them, but I don't.

Synopsis - House pines over Stacy leaving for good and accidentally overdoses on Vicodin. Plot in progress. Please R&R . House/Stacy, House/Cameron, House/Wilson friendship.

Attention reviewers - Took advice from previous reviews. Tell me what you think about this. I'm brainstorming ideas right now about what the plot will follow, but want imput on chapter one first.

CHAPTER 1 - THE ONE

House sat in his office late on a Thursday evening deep in thought, so deep in fact, he did not even realize what time it was. Visiting hours were long since over and just the overnight nurses along with a handful of interns and residents staffed the building. He was one of a small few day shift employees who should have been home instead of still at work but only because his department had just received a new patient that afternoon at Cuddy's request. Surprisingly enough, it seemed as if the new treatment he had prescribed for the new patient's supposed allergies was working. Cameron had even impressed him that day for thinking both so quickly and so far out of the normal realm of immunology; she had even mentioned a treatment that he hadn't heard of before.

As House continued to think, spinning his favorite red ball in his hands, there was a gentle but firm knock on his door. He looked up to see Wilson standing there smiling. Things were apparently going well for him and Julie, or at least Julie didn't know about James' newest fling. Either way, Wilson was in a good mood.

"So you know how you told me last month that if you could go back in time, you would?" Wilson asked House without bothering to enter the office suite.

House stopped spinning the ball momentarily to ponder what his friend just said. He didn't recall saying that at all to Wilson, but between the weeklong ill-advised Vicodin-booze binge and the busier-than-normal caseload, it was hard to remember.

"Are you asking me about the _other_ Gregory House that works here?"

"So there's more than one of you now?"

"Got cloned last month. Didn't you notice?"

"Apparently not." Wilson entered and sat in an empty chair across from House's desk. It had really been a long time since the two took time to spend together. It wasn't that odd however considering how busy both doctors were. They looked at each other for a brief moment before Wilson asked, "So, what exactly is happening between you and Stacy?"

The immortal question.

House looked at Wilson, knowing that for once it was okay to actually speak the truth and not fabricate fiction for the sake of driving someone away. What exactly was happening? He knew he had read her psych file, he knew he still wanted to be with her, and he knew that Mark was well on his way to recovery.

Wilson blinked and was about to give up on an answer when House finally jarred himself from his thoughts, "I don't know."

With the answer, Wilson lowered himself back into his chair and gave House a quizzing look. He knew that his friend of all people, the one who dated Stacy for several years and whose life was dramatically altered by her, should know what was happening.

"I never wanted her to come back in my life. I never wanted to have to forgive her."

The truth. Wilson sighed. For years he had been trying to get House to admit his true feelings to him and to the world, but the harder he tried, the more House withdrew into himself in frustration, pain, and depression. Wilson had been trying to convince House to try antidepressants for several years now, but to no avail. The only thing House would let him prescribe was the Vicodin, and it was no secret that he became more and more dependant on it to function physically and emotionally. He had become the drug.

"Jim, do you know what she said to me?"

Wilson knew; he was the one that forced Stacy to tell him. If she didn't tell him this to his face, it would tear him apart beyond recovery, it would kill him. She had done this to him, and neither he nor House would really be able to forgive her for it.

"She told me I was the one. Not yesterday, not a week ago, but when she first came back. How could she tell me that?"

Wilson shook his head, not knowing how to answer. He had been expecting House to tell him the other thing he had found out, the other thing he forced Stacy to tell House. Either his friend didn't know the news or he refused to believe it, refused to see her disappear from him again.

"Have any of your exes told you that?"

Wilson looked slightly uncomfortable at that question due to his past indiscretions. "Well, generally, I'm the one telling them that."

House flashed him a look. _Not your story Jimmy. Not your time for confession._ He felt the need to continue, "Well, she told me that right after she reminded me of her husband."

Wilson had to admit that despite being trusted friends with Stacy, she definitely struck House at a moment of extreme vulnerability. He didn't understand how she could come back into his life and twist a knife in his friend's heart again. He tried to protect House when she came to town and had dinner with her -the night he was supposed to speak at the Oncology Dinner. He then noticed that House took two Vicodin.

"Greg, exactly how many of those have you taken?"

The pill bottle dropped from the crippled man's hand to the floor, spilling the treasured pills with it. "I can't do this anymore Jim. I can't."

Wilson wanted to console House hug him, comfort him, but he knew his friend wouldn't let it be seen in the literal glass walls of the hospital. Whoever had designed the building, though beautiful and open inside, had never heard of HIPAA laws (the healthcare laws that protect doctor-patient confidentiality).

"You should take a vacation. Get away from here."

Wilson saw House reach down and pick up the Vicodin, popping another couple in his mouth. He stood up and ran over to his friend to keep him from swallowing. He knew it had been an intense day for his friend, both physically and emotionally, and he knew House's leg was acting up again. However, the extra narcotic in his system was the last thing that was needed. Wilson pocketed the pills, squatted down to House's eye level, and said, "She told you something else today. I know she did. What did she say?"

House looked deep into Wilson's caring eyes as his friend took his hands. "She's leaving."

Late that morning, Wilson had gone to see Stacy about some insurance claims that needed some legal references when she had first told him the news. Tomorrow would be her last day at PPTH, and she only wanted Cuddy and Wilson to know. Wilson somehow convinced her to tell House, knowing that while it would kill him, not knowing would be worse.

Wilson swallowed hard as he looked back at House, sighed, and said with regret in his voice, "You needed to know. It would be worse if you didn't."

"How? How would it be worse?"

Wilson sighed, he didn't really know and he didn't want to skirt the issue to his best friend. Instead, he pulled over a chair and changed the subject. "We all knew this day had been coming for awhile now. Mark was able to walk already two weeks ago."

House looked at the wall suddenly and said blankly, "You knew."

"Yes, I did, but only because I got it out of her earlier today."

"You Knew!"

"Stacy only wanted Cuddy to know."

"YOU KNEW!"

Wilson sighed. He knew House was trying to get him to take full responsibility, force him into admitting it in fact, but it wouldn't work. "You need to see a professional about this House."

"Tried it."

"When?"

"After the leg, the first time."

"And did you give it time to work?" Wilson knew how impatient House was. If something didn't work, he'd just try something else until he found something that did or exhausted all possibilities. The first time with Stacy, the Vicodin had been the first thing that worked, despite the fact that he insisted then that it was only for the pain. Wilson also knew that House only went to one therapy session and stared at the counselor the entire time, diagnosing her at the end of the session with Corrigan's Disease.

He took House's lack of an answer to mean a no.

"I had gotten used to coming to work, doing my job, and going home to nothing. I had started to move on. I even went out with Cameron."

Wilson smiled slightly at this. It was too much fun to see House mock the young doctor behind her back about her puppy-love crush she had. It was even more fun to see her approach House with those eyes and then see his friend squirm.

"Then Stacy came back, and it was like the infarction happened all over again. I was back at square one, seeing myself watch her from a distance, wishing it was like old times again, wishing I was with her. But now, there's this!" House had motioned at his leg. "The pain, the pills, the scripts, the…"

"Dependence?"

"Yes. I hate it, and when she came, she reminded me of how dependant I had become on the pills." House looked down at his watch, finally realizing that it was well after nine in the evening and finally realizing that Wilson wasn't there just to visit. "So, why exactly are you here?"

"Finishing paperwork." A total lie, both men knew it and both accepted it as reality.

House nodded at Wilson's response, just grateful that he didn't need to be alone in his office at this vulnerable moment on this vulnerable evening. He didn't want to go back to the emptiness and loneliness of the his apartment, and he didn't want to go to the bar to only stare down a glass of alcohol. He wanted to be here, to try to live within a memory of a more pleasant time in his life, before the leg, and during Stacy. He could feel the four Vicodin he just took swimming within his veins now on top of the others he had taken earlier. If Wilson hadn't picked up the other pills, he would have taken more; the reality of Stacy leaving his life for good had created more pain for him physically, even though he knew it was his emotions manifesting themselves across his physical body. Somehow though, he could feel his breathing slow down.

"When did she tell you that she was leaving?" Wilson asked, trying to get his friend to open up about a sensitive topic, knowing he needed to get House to talk about this or it could be the end.

"This afternoon. You were with patients. The kids and I had just finished up brainstorming the newest patient, and they had all left. As I settled in to play some Space Monkeys she came into my office. She told me she had to talk, so we went up to the roof to talk. That's where she told me, up on the roof."

Wilson sat across from House listening to the story but his mind wandering to the old days and what House was like before the leg. He hadn't noticed but his friend's breathing had slowed further to almost nothing, and House was bracing his head with his arm, trying to steady himself in the chair.

"Remember the good old days Wilson? Remember how we'd used to party?"

"Yeah." House grunted in approval. The parties and trouble they had caused had been what sustained him in the days before he met Stacy. He wanted to hear more from Wilson, be reminded of the fact that there was a point in his life where there had not been a "Stacy" and when he was actually happy. He closed his eyes and smiled. He could vaguely remember what it was like, however, it didn't seem as real anymore, in fact, the more he thought about it, the more he just wanted to lie down in his chair and take a nap.

Not only was House getting tired, but it was getting harder for him to hold himself up in his chair; dizziness had taken over his field of vision and sense of motion. He knew he took too many Vicodin, and he had intended to take even more before Wilson came in but couldn't. He tried to tell Wilson to leave but found it harder than normal to talk, words wouldn't come out right. He was cold, so cold, and needed to get warm, but found the task impossible. At the same time, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep, but first he had to address his friend in front of him, blocking him from what he really wanted to do. He knew he had to show Wilson out of his office. However, as he stood up to say goodnight to his friend, everything became a blur and he could feel his body shake in a million directions beneath him; nerve cells rapidly misfiring in his brain shaking the muscle fibers of his body like a limp rag-doll.

As consciousness failed Gregory House, only one thing focused clearly in front of his eyes however, an apparition of his past, present, and future: Stacy.


	2. Up on the Roof

OF MOMENTS PAST

by entercreativename

Disclaimer - Wish I owned them, but I don't.

Synopsis - House pines over Stacy leaving for good and accidentally overdoses on Vicodin. Plot in progress. Please R&R. House/Stacy, House/Cameron, House/Wilson friendship.

* * *

CHAPTER 2 - UP ON THE ROOF

As House fell to his office floor, he could see Stacy watching him, looking into his soul with her brown eyes. He saw her so strongly he knew she was there, but was it really her? Last he remembered though, she was leaving, so it could not have been her.

Several moments had passed as House lay motionless, the seizures having ended finally. His body felt heavy and he found that despite his best efforts he could not move any of his muscles anymore; his body felt like old gelatin from the hospital cafeteria about to melt from the fire the neurons in his brain had ravaged on his body a moment earlier. A chill overcame his body and he began to sense how cold he really was. Was it really a chill though? The more he thought about it, the more it seemed as if it was a late-afternoon breeze.

As House lay there, his senses starting to wake up again, he felt the warmth of a hand gently touch his shoulder and he could sense a presence standing over him. A light flashed in each of his eyes briefly and he saw a blurry figure haunt the area in front of him. Who was that? House tried hard to figure out who was there but instead fell further into his dream-like state, his body unaware of the chemical abuse it had just taken.

Consciousness finally started to return to House as he felt the same warm hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to be greeted by a blurry figure standing over him. As his eyes began to return to normal focus, he realized that the ceiling of his office was a light blue color and the lights were too bright. That couldn't have been right; last he remembered his ceiling was gunmetal gray. He'd have to talk to Cuddy about those things, but first, he had more important things to deal with, like, figuring out where he was.

House's vision finally returned to him and he slowly realized that the ceiling above him wasn't just light blue in color, but in fact it wasn't his office's ceiling. Instead, he lay somewhere outside in the late-afternoon air, his office furniture surrounding him still. The figure from before put a warm hand on his shoulder again, giving him comfort and hope. He saw a bright light being shined into his eyes, one at a time. Was Stacy doing that? He looked harder and decided that in fact, the shadowy form kneeling over him on the roof of the hospital was in fact Stacy trying to wake him up, kneeling in above him where he thought Wilson had been seconds before. What had happened? He tried to ask Stacy how they had gotten to the roof but found he was unable to talk yet; he needed more time to recover from the seizure he had moments earlier.

Suddenly, he felt the blood drain from his face and everything in front of his eyes went momentarily black. Was it all a dream? Was the apparition in front of him really Stacy? Was he really on the roof? One thing was certain: he definitely took too much Vicodin. He opened his eyes and his questions were finally answered; Gregory House lay on the roof of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

House turned onto his side and took his cane in his hand, briefly noticing that his watch read 4:37 pm. He turned his head and saw and almost angelic figure standing by the edge of the roof overlooking the university campus. The figure did not move but the wind blew her dark brown hair and wispy tan skirt around as if she were a picture on the front of a Harlequin Romance novel. She was as beautiful as the first time House had seen her years before.

House finally managed to stand up, thanks to the aid of his trusted can and the skylight to the surgeon's lounge below him. He felt a slight loss of dignity when he realized how much better the surgeons were treated than Diagnostics and Oncology were. However, House brushed off the feeling as soon as he remembered how quick the surgeons were with the hacksaw and butcher- knife. He wanted a skylight too, but realized that would be impossible in a second-story office. He'd have to settle with sharing a balcony with Wilson.

House slowly made his way towards Stacy, cautious for fear that his dizziness may return. Suddenly, he was overcome by the strongest sense of déjà vu he had ever experienced in his life. Why did it seem as if he had experienced this already? Did he? It seemed as if he had been in his office with Wilson telling his friend about Stacy's departure. He shook it off, considering it an after-effect of what he now thought was just low blood sugar. Ever since the infarction he suffered occasional problems like that.

As he made his way closer to the angelic woman, he saw her turn around and walk towards him.

"Greg, I'm sorry we had to come up here, I know your leg has been worse than normal the last few days." The statement was her voice, but she couldn't have said it as she was too far away from him at the moment. It was if the sound of her voice danced on the wind. She looked at him with a puzzled look and her walk quickened with concern.

"Greg, are you okay? I can get Wilson…"

"No Stacy, I'm fine." He didn't want to see Wilson at this moment; he just wanted to see her, and feel her, and smell her. He saw Stacy put her arm around him, helping him walk towards the edge of the roof to look west with her over the campus like they used to do ages ago together before the infarction. However, as he walked, it felt as if his body was three steps behind his mind, which was now racing and spinning around in front of him, and obvious side-effect of the Vicodin flowing through his veins. He enjoyed the feeling, but didn't enjoy the loss of control he attributed to it. He couldn't lose control when Stacy was nearby. He had to admit that the feeling of being aided in walking was awkward to him even though he knew he needed help at the moment.

"Greg, I'm glad you agreed to come up here. I wanted to talk, but it would have been hard to do so in your office."

House gained some sense of composure to add the question, "And we couldn't have just gone to your office?"

"I wanted to come to a spot that meant more to both of us than just a silly room with a desk and some books." Stacy said that so sincerely that House instantly felt the warmth of the statement move through him. He knew she was trying to be sincere, and that only meant one thing.

"Greg, we both know that Mark's recovery has been a speedy one, and we both know we've been using borrowed time between us." House knew what was coming, and he wished that she would just tell him the news the same way he told patients they were dying.

'Greg, I know you don't like it when someone sugar-coats bad news, but…"

"…You thought correctly Stacy. I don't like it so you might as well just get to the point, which I figure is that you're leaving." House looked directly into her eyes. It never used to be easy to say these things to her, but then he got practice, and after a year or two of punishing her for causing him to be crippled, it became a lot easier.

Tears welled up in Stacy's eyes as she slowly let go of House's waist to turn to cry into his chest. House hated this, all of this drama. He knew she was leaving at some point, but he never wanted to admit it to anyone, let alone himself. Stacy's cries became louder into his jacket as she suddenly sobbed, "I don't want to leave you! Not again!"

House finally understood what she was saying. Stacy was in deeper love with him now more than ever, years of separation leading to the obsession that had ensued when she came back. House felt it too and put his free arm around her gently. He kissed the top of her head and could smell her shampoo. "I never wanted you to leave in the first place."

"Why Greg? Why did you treat me that way?"

"I was angry at myself, but the only thing I thought I could blame for everything was you. I thought that it would have been easier to die. I'm sorry."

House felt Stacy's arms tighten even more around him. He loved this moment, and didn't want it to end. He waited for Stacy to speak again, as he did not want to; if he were to speak, the moment would no longer live on.

"Stacy, you need to ask yourself, what do you really want from life?" It was a deep question and House knew that she'd have to think.

She continued to think. She needed the stability that Mark could provide, but she couldn't love him the way she loved House.

"What I need is this moment, you, in the now. Curry. I…" she hesitated, sensing the philosophical weight in what she wanted to say, "…I need this moment to continue on forever. Can it?"

House looked deep into her tear filled eyes, regretting the inevitable answer he'd have to tell her. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, knowing the punishment he was about to say to her in a single, simple word. "No."

The word rang acrid in the air around Stacy and House; Stacy didn't want to believe it and House didn't realize how easy it had been to finally say it. He loved her, but he didn't want to be continually reminded of her influence on his life. As Stacy realized the finality of what he had actually said, she dug her hands into his torso and her face into her chest. She heaved heavy tears of sadness and regret. She heaved tears for all of the lost moments she would never have with her true love.

"Stacy, I…" House had to think. What did he really want?

House continued, "If I could control the universe, and believe me, I've tried, I would stop time so that all we would ever need is each other. I'd erase Mark, and this hospital, and the rest of the world…"

"…and then I'd be just as lonely as I was the first time." Stacy looked into House's eyes. "Greg, I love you and need you so that I can survive, but I can't be with you. I meant it when I came back that you were the one and that you always have and will be. It's just…"

House closed his eyes at that statement. She had stung him once before the very same day he had saved her husband. It was raining that day, and he was surprised that it wasn't raining now, as he felt it should have been. He strengthened his embrace around Stacy and thought of the rain. It would have fit. He wanted to cry, she was crying, but he was too ignorant to his true feelings. He sighed heavily and heard thunder softly speak its echo across the sky above him as he felt raindrops start to pour down around him and Stacy.

"We should probably go inside Greg. We'll be soaked."

"I don't want this moment to end either Stacy, and if we move, then it will be over." She was better than Vicodin; with her in his arms, he felt he never needed the drug again.

House took one last moment to wish her goodbye. This would be the last time he saw her or would speak to her. As she turned to walk away, the rain filled in for House what he was truly feeling inside. He wanted to cry, to scream, to kick, and to run away. But all he could do was to look at her and watch her leave his life one final time.

Stacy was about to reach the door to the stairwell as she turned around and tried to yell to House over the thunder, "Greg, something's wrong!"

House saw her turn and try to say something to her but all he heard from her mouth was a gasp as she fell and vomited blood into a pool of rainwater that had collected near her feet. Sensing the seriousness of the situation he limped towards her as fast as he possibly could; the roof was slippery when it was wet. She was now hunched over her, illness tearing away the beauty from her face and replacing it with pain, sorrow, and suffering.

"Greg, help me!" she whimpered. House could see the blood that had spattered over her dress, staining the dress pink as it permeated the fabric that was already soaked with rainwater. He knelt over her to protect her from the rain and cold wind. To help her he knew that he needed to leave her, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. He scanned the horizon of the roof and saw two orderlies smoking under the eaves of the stairwell for protection. He called to them and they came to help. He saw the stronger of the two reach down and swoop her up from under his reach. He ordered them to page his team and admit her under his care.

He stood in the red puddle where Stacy had been, soaked with both near-freezing rainwater and her hot, bright red blood, the two liquids pooling together in the fabric of his shirt and slacks and chilling him to his core. He loved her, and though he was not a religious man, he knew that this was a sign from above. The moment between the two of them had ended, and not the way he had ever imagined or wanted for her. He had long ago accepted that their relationship would end with him leaving the world, but he could not accept the fact the other way around.

He knew he had to go downstairs to save Stacy, but he instead closed his eyes and wallowed in the pity of the sudden storm that had engulfed his and Stacy's love.


	3. Life Sentences

OF MOMENTS PAST

by entercreativename

Disclaimer - Wish I owned them, but I don't.

Synopsis - Ever have a dream you can't escape? House is stuck in his mind after a brush with a Vicodin overdose and needs to save Stacy and Cameron. Please R&R. House/Stacy, House/Cameron, House/Wilson friendship.

* * *

CHAPTER 3 - LIFE SENTENCES

House slowly followed Chase and Foreman to his office suite, Wilson walking next to him. He was still soaked and covered in Stacy's blood from the roof, it was alright though, as the wet clothes against his skin reminded him of how much in denial he really was over the ordeal. Wilson had urged him to change into scrubs already when he had finally emerged from his self-imposed solitary confinement on the roof and in the stairwell. Wilson was there for him, always there.

His journey down from the roof, though it was a relatively short one, seemed to be more like a funeral march; his cane mocking the slow and careful roll-step he had developed in times like this over the years. Each step he took brought him farther away from the dream of life with his love and closer to his life confined to the prison of his body she had sentenced him to years before. He was angry because of the leg, because of Stacy forcing his all on him, and now at himself for forgiving her and falling in love with her all over again.

She was a lawyer though, what did he expect?

He slowly began to make his way down the stairs; there were eleven of them total to get to the top floor of PPTH. In his days as a smoker, and his days with Stacy, he frequently made the trips up there, and he habitually counted the stairs each time. Each flight of stairs had eleven, with two flights and a landing between each floor of the hospital. Floor floors, a basement, and a roof made ninety-nine stairs to run when he needed to burn off extra energy or when he was spending a lot of time thinking.

He often fathomed why the architects chose eleven steps and not another number. Were they drunk at the time? Were ten steps not enough? Thirteen would have been bad luck for some, and the symbolism wouldn't have helped at a hospital. At the end of each mental argument of this sort, House always just assumed that the eleven steps were made due to the ceiling height and nothing more.

Today though, eleven steps seemed like an eternity. He looked down from the top of the stairs and though he knew he only needed to go eleven steps, he knew how much his leg hurt and how hard it would be to get back down to the fourth floor. He wanted to curse Stacy for bringing him up there, and for the leg in general, but he instead took two Vicodin and waited a couple of extra minutes for them to start working. He was alone now on the roof, the lonely sound of rain and thunder his only company.

Once satisfied in what he assumed to be an increase in the blood-level of the drug in his system, he set foot at escaping his confinement.

_First task, take Vicodin and wait for it to work. Done. _

_Second task, move the cane to the other hand. Done. _

_Third task, grasp the handrail in his right hand. Done. _

He continued through the mental checklist of what had taken over his tortuous life as he slowly lowered his bad leg onto the step below him, followed by his good leg and the weight from the rest of his body. He had learned this task early on in physical therapy, and though he knew he no longer needed the checklist, it was somewhat of a comfort to still recite it, as he knew it helped take his mind off of the actual pain of his leg.

_One step down, ten to go._

As he continued down the flight of stairs, he remembered how at one point in his life he would nonchalantly run up and down them in groups of two and three alternately occasionally adding in a single step here and there to add freedom to his step. Freedom. He really didn't have that anymore, did he? He had become a creature of habit in the last five years, finding that, despite how it locked him into routine, it comforted him to know that he would always have the same thing as long as he desired.

_Three steps. Repeat._

He hated how long it took him to get this far now. Hobbling down the hallway with his cane had become second nature, but due to the difficulty involved with running, more like limping, stairs he had avoided them altogether and befriended the elevators. The other staff knew this, and knew that in the heat of an argument, it was the easiest way to escape him.

_Five steps. Repeat._

At that, the sound of his beeper stunned him out of the concentration of his steps and the shock momentarily made him lose his count. He looked at the display; judging by what it said, the kids had stabilized Stacy and told Wilson, or something to that order. His friend had paged him to see if he was okay. That meant he had about five minutes before his friend would come looking for him. They knew he was on the roof, and should have known that he was on his way down. However, his friend also knew that he was dealing with House. Six steps left in five minutes, which gave him just under a minute per stair. He could just imagine Wilson on his way up to the fourth floor now, tapping his foot in the elevator and staring at the panel above the door waiting to exit on the fourth floor.

He stood next to the inward swinging door and reached his free hand, his left, out towards the door in the dimly lit stairwell. Just as his hand met the cold metal, the door swung open. Just as he had expected, Wilson stood in front of him.

"Good thing I wasn't using my right hand." House mentioned, noticing how close of a call he had just made to breaking his nose. He thought of the poetic symbolism of his blood joining Stacy's blood on his clothing and was almost comforted at the beauty in it.

The two of them walked in silence down the hallway to the elevators, House quietly annoyed and brooding over Wilson's insistence to look over him, Wilson thankful that House was still alive and didn't find the pavement on the ground level below the quick way. They continued to walk in silence, save for one statement from Wilson, "You should change into some dry clothes; you'll be more comfortable that way." House didn't want to respond to that, he didn't want to respond to anything at the moment. He wanted to enjoy the peace of the silence of shock and fear that had overcome him.

Wilson continued, "Your leg won't cramp up from the damp cold if you change."

House knew that, but still didn't want to say anything. He wanted to wallow in silence, he wanted to watch the images of the last moments on the roof continue to play out in front of his eyes. He just wanted to be still.

As they neared the offices, they had joined up with Foreman and Chase, House assuming that Cameron's absence from the pair meant she was on her way to the Pathology Lab. As the three other doctors walking in his company slipped into the Diagnostics conference room, he spied a cart of clean linens and stole a warm blanket and a set of scrubs from the rack; he'd change later after a nap.

He set the scrubs and blanket down on a chair next to the door to his office, which he noticed was strangely darkened. He didn't know how or why it was dark, and he didn't want to take the energy to find out either. He sat down at the conference table after handing a marker to Foreman who was ecstatic at the chance to finally write on the board. He watched the three doctors talk and discuss Stacy's case in front of him, nodding silently to confirm answers to questions he was asked. He was grateful Wilson was still there to fend off questions that would be too harsh for House to answer at the moment in time.

They continued.

They finished.

His fellows had exited to run their tests and he was left alone in the conference room with Wilson, however, he did not notice as he continued to stare at the corner of the white board, shock blurring the letters Foreman had written earlier into one mass of black squiggles.

"They're doing everything they can."

"I know."

"I'll cover for you on this."

"She needs me."

"I know. I have patients to look after. I'll be back in about half an hour. Change into those scrubs and you'll feel better."

"Thanks."

House was left alone in the Diagnostics conference room against his and Wilson's better judgment, but then again, what could he really do? He took the scrubs to the nearest locker room, changed into them, and came back to the office suite, discarding his wet clothes onto the back of a chair to partially dry. He hated the smell of mildew, and though he did not want the suite to take on that smell, he did not want to make the effort to prevent it either.

He took the blanket from the chair next to his office door and opened it only to find Cameron sitting in his lounge chair, right foot resting on the foot rest and crutches to her right; her right knee was wrapped in a large brace.

"What are you doing here Cameron?"

She looked ahead at the edge of the desk with a blank look in her face and blinked. Though she was in her normal dress, she had changed out of her usual heels into a pair of old tennis shoes she kept in her locker for times she needed them.

"I hope you don't mind. I'm waiting for Ortho to get back to me on the MRI of my knee. Blew it out in the clinic."

"That's exactly why I avoid the place."

"I blew it out covering your shift for you House."

"Rub it in."

"I don't want to bicker. I'm sorry."

House wanted to accept the apology, but knew that if he did so, she would suspect something was wrong and she'd be all over him. Instead he stalled. "Who did you see?"

"Cuddy."

"What'd she give you?"

"Vicodin. I can see why you like it so much."

"Makes you think clearer, huh?"

Cameron continued to stare at the corner of House's desk with a glazed look in her eyes, "Yeah."

"How much did she give you?"

Cameron grunted, "A lot. Don't remember how much. Huh. Really good though."

"You're high Cameron. You might want to switch to naproxen, 500 mg twice a day; only one of us in this department really needs to be on the other stuff." He took his prescription pad and filled the top sheet out for her. "What happened?"

He hated being curious, and he probably could figure out what did happen to her, but he was enjoying watching Cameron enjoy the legally prescribed narcotic flow through her veins.

"Well, I was in the clinic covering your hours, I should have never taken Foreman's bet, and I had a particularly annoying patient. Middle-aged white male, about 375 pounds, got stabbed by wife in the knee with a letter opener and hit on the head with a frying pan as well."

House smiled and laughed a little at a mental picture of Julie Wilson running after a much larger version of her husband with a frying pan. He could see it happening too, and he could see his friend being partially bald as well in that scenario. However, he had to promise himself he would never tell his best friend of that image or he would be in trouble.

Cameron continued. "She caught him cheating on her with her best friend and her sister. I guess I insulted him or something and next thing you know, he was trying to run out of the room. Unfortunately, his knee gave out and he fell as I came to steady him and help him back to the exam table. He fell on top of me, taking out my right knee in the process. It didn't help that his concussion finally hit him and he passed out too."

"Sorry."

"Part of the job. Brenda took over and looked after the patient after she and three orderlies got him onto a gurney. He's probably been admitted. Cuddy might let you and I out of clinic duty though because of it. She said that if that had happened to you, then you probably would have lost a lot more than the use of your knee."

House laughed, as he knew Cameron and Cuddy were both right. He probably would have gotten himself admitted because of the knee and he was sure there would have been a small fistfight as well. He finally won an argument though with Cuddy as to why he shouldn't do clinic duty; physically moving and dealing with patients was hard on his leg and he needed more of his strength to balance than he was aware of.

"I suppose you want your chair. Cuddy and I were both paged about Stacy. Sorry."

"No, you can stay here. Actually, go home. We can handle this."

"No, I'll stay. I'll be fine."

Pity, she was actually giving him pity. He was both annoyed and humbled at the level of humility she was showing him at the moment. She knew she needed to be here, and he knew she was correct. He also knew that there was no way that he could think rationally in this situation and that she knew it as well.

"Um sir, you might want to take a shower."

"What?" House had a small sense of indignity and curious as to why she had said this and then felt a sticky substance in his hair: Stacy's blood. He knew it had soaked into his clothing, but he didn't know it was in his hair as well. "I will. Are you sure you are going to stay?"

"Nothing better to do at home."

With that House left Cameron in his office and headed back to the locker room. The day had shaken his core sense of confidence and he really could no longer be sarcastic though he wanted to. He tried to chase Cameron off in his office but couldn't. Probably just as well he left her in the chair; he didn't want Stacy's blood from his hair soaking into anything else.

As he headed towards the locker room, he felt bad for her knowing that she had just suffered an injury that would probably haunt her for life because of him. He suddenly saw Cameron in a new light. She had made a phenomenal diagnosis that morning on their new patient, and now she was in as much pain as he was because of covering for his arrogance. She sat there in his office, high on Vicodin and in pain, all because of him, yet she showed great grace and dignity. He admired that.

House headed for the showers, unaware of what the strange night ahead would bring.


	4. The Proxy

OF MOMENTS PAST

by entercreativename

Disclaimer - Wish I owned them, but I don't.

Synopsis - Ever have a dream you can't escape? House is stuck in his mind after a brush with a Vicodin overdose and needs to save the love of his life. But who is she? Please R&R. HouseStacy, HouseCameron, HouseWilson friendship.

DRAFT

* * *

CHAPTER 4 – THE PROXY

House slowly made his way to Wilson's office after he physically separated himself from the remnants of Stacy's blood that had previously drenched his hair and his clothing. He felt a strange sense of freedom and regret; freedom in that he no longer was imprisoned by the touch of her cells and her DNA, and regret in that she was no longer touching him in the most poetic of ways. He wanted to go to his office, to brood in his own distinct environment, but he also did not want to disturb Cameron at the moment. He still felt bad for her, but the feeling was beginning to pass. She had matured at that moment, the way she had matured with every other moment before this one, but this one seemed to mature her further. He sensed that she now knew that the same patients whose lives she was fighting for were the same ones keeping her from what she needed most: safety.

He arrived outside of his office and saw her silhouette possess his favorite chair and he noticed how old she looked in her restless sleep. She could barely sleep, every couple of seconds she would move, and then she would just wake up. She looked as if she were cold, and troubled. He saw the blanket on the desk next to her. Why had she not taken it? He then remembered her leg. In the weeks that he had just come after the infarction he slept the same way: he couldn't. He had always been a light sleeper and an insomniac, however, the pain radiating from his leg made it worse. He watched Cameron struggle to sleep from the hallway as he heard a set of familiar footsteps approach him from behind.

"There you are. Stacy is stable if you were wondering, or were you instead worried about Dr. Cameron's condition?"

House turned around to see Wilson standing behind him. "Thank you."

"I couldn't find you after my afternoon rounds. Where were you anyway?"

"Took a shower. I'm all squeaky clean now."

"I could tell. You smell like lilacs."

"Didn't have any shampoo in my locker so I borrowed yours." House turned back around to look at Cameron asleep. He had never really noticed her like this before. She lay there in his chair tossing and turning, and it looked as if she was trying to fight off nightmares that she could no longer contain. He was sure that some of those nightmares had to deal with the death of her husband while she was still in college and that others had to deal with the miles of geography that stand between her and her family, her true support system. He watched her and he knew that she, like him, only really had this job and the relationships with the people at this hospital. That was partly why he hired her.

"You seem distracted House; could it be the young doctor sleeping in your chair in your office?" House clearly heard a distinct emphasis on the word "your."

He had to think up a quick lie. He was indeed distracted and enjoying it, however, he was sure it was still the shock of the day wearing on him. He had never seen Cameron in the sense that she could have been worn-down and in severe pain. He wondered how she would handle it in the coming days; physical therapy alone was enough to change him in the days after the infarction, and now she would be facing it too.

"House, you didn't answer me."

"Let's go to your office." House responded, still staring at Cameron through the windows and partially drawn blinds.

"Good, I have something I need to show you."

House followed his friend into the office. He never realized how lucky Wilson was to have an office with normal, plastered walls. True, it was nice to people-watch through his walls, but he was never the people-watching type.

As he followed into Wilson's office, he noticed a small table set up in front of the couch with two cups of soup and other Chinese take-out. He was impressed; he could always look to Wilson to take care of him. He didn't know why, but in the days after Stacy had left him the first time Wilson would often bring over Chinese and check up on him. He assumed it was just because they were friends, but it was more as if Wilson had become like a brother looking after him. After awhile he learned that he enjoyed this sort of care and their friendship had never been stronger. He did not envy Wilson in those days though; he knew Stacy had torn him apart both physically and emotionally and he knew it was tough for his friend to see him like that.

He did enjoy those meetings with Wilson after Stacy left to some extent; he was always reassured that at least someone other than his overly-concerned mother was there to protect him. He was vulnerable during that time, and she had done that to him. He was weak, ill, in pain, and needed anyone to give any part of what they had for him. He knew he couldn't go it alone and he was forever grateful towards Wilson for recognizing that.

He sat down on the couch in Wilson's office, feeling the soft cushions envelop his body; they were warm so Wilson had been there a moment before. Wilson took one of the containers of soup while motioning for House to do the same. This gesture proved to House that neither man would be leaving the building tonight. It was rare for Wilson or House to order the take-out while in the hospital unless one or both were on difficult cases. Then, it was custom for the doctor leading the case to order the food while the other was available to bounce diagnostic hypothesis off of each other. Then, Cuddy gave him permission to hire three fellows: Chase, Cameron, and Foreman. The days of take-out had come to an end at that point.

House, taking the first sip of soup, finally realized how hungry he had become; the warm broth of the egg-drop slowly caressed his esophagus and then soothed his hunger-panged stomach. In the days after Stacy left him, egg-drop soup had become comfort food. He was unwilling to cook for himself, and Wilson was not always available to make sure that House would eat, so Wilson would often order the soup for House to be delivered to the home knowing that if the older of the pair was offered food he would accept it and eat it.

He found he was always able to define periods of his life by food. Growing up, he ate his mother's home cooking. She made casseroles and meat and potato meals. Then he went to college where it had become similar food but of a lesser quality. Med-school and residency was defined by hospital cafeterias and vending machines; his favorite becoming original flavored potato chips and a Coca Cola. Stacy had defined his diet by finding curry and other ethnic flavors for the pair to divulge in. The post-Stacy period to present time had become the era of Wilson's take-out: Chinese, pizza, and whoever else would deliver at the oddest times of the day.

Tonight though, dinner in his friend's office brought back memories for him and it comforted him. He needed that comfort. It wasn't until almost half of his soup was gone that he finally was satisfied enough to speak, "So, what was it that you needed to show me? The newest _Playboy_? Or is it _Hot Doxs_ these days?"

"House!" Wilson shot him a glare. Yes, it was just like old-times.

He saw Wilson reach over onto the top of a pile on his desk and pull a patient chart from the top of it. He saw that the colored stickers on the file read "S" and "W," and it was not hard to imagine whose initials those were. "Stacy Warner's" chart was in Wilson's hands. House saw Wilson's face change when he realized that House knew what was coming next. Back to reality.

"House, Foreman and I have been trying for the last couple of hours to contact Mark but he's refusing to answer us. We haven't been able to get his consent to the procedures via his medical proxy. However, we were paging through Stacy's chart, and we found something."

House was intrigued. Mark, who had played the role of overprotective husband so well during his diagnosis and treatment, was now missing? What would Stacy make of this? She was there for Mark the entire diagnosis, treatment, and rehab; she even insisted that there was absolutely something wrong with him even when House at first didn't see it. He didn't think it would be like Mark to be absent from his wife's side at the time of her distress.

"House?" Wilson called the name to get his attention. House looked up at his friend and saw that there was a piece of paper in his hands, slightly yellowed by age. He thought he knew what it was but wasn't quite sure.

"Good news and bad news. Even though we can't find Mark to give consent, I have in my hands the name of another person who I know would be more than willing to do so. That's the good news. The bad news is though that Legal Affairs says that you should not treat her because of this document. Cuddy and I agree." Wilson handed the aged paper to House who took it after wiping his hands on the stack of paper napkins to his left. While he was not concerned about being a slob at his own home or in Wilson's office, he did not want to get soup all over a legal document.

He pulled the document closer to him and remembered signing a similar one shortly before his infarction. He looked at it closer:

_**The New Jersey Commission on Legal and Ethical Problems in the Delivery of Health Care**_

_PROXY DIRECTIVE—(Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care)_

_Designation of Health Care Representative_

_I understand that as a competent adult, I have the right to make decisions about my health care. There may come a time when I am unable, due to physical or mental incapacity, to make my own health care decision. In these circumstances, those caring for me will need direction and they will turn to someone who knows my values and health care wishes._

House scoffed for a moment at the words "…knows my values and health care wishes." If that were really the case, his leg would still be whole.

_By writing this durable power of attorney for health care I appoint a health care representative with the legal authority to make health care decisions on my behalf and to consult with my physician and others. I direct that this document become part of my permanent medical records._

"So, it's a power of attorney form. We've both seen these on a regular basis. Where's the DNR?" House scoffed at Wilson.

"Look closer House, I know you can."

House looked down at the document and continued to read.

_**A.) CHOOSING A HEALTH CARE REPRESENTATIVE**_

_I,  Stacy Warner , hereby designate Gregory House , of_

_ 221B Baker St. Princeton, New Jersey 08542; 609-555-3562 , _

_**(home address and telephone number of health care representative)**_

_as my health care representative to make any and all health care decisions for me…_

House didn't need to read further as all of the information that he really needed was in those two lines of text. She used her married name, which meant the form was recent, but he could tell by the age of the paper that it had to have been from before Mark fell ill. House read further down the form.

_This durable power of attorney for health care shall take effect in the event I become unable to make my own health care decisions, as determined by the physician who has primary responsibility for my care, and any necessary confirming determinations._

"I assume that in this case, you are the physician responsible for Stacy, and I am the one who is assigned to make the choices?"

"Legal Affairs told me the exact same thing. She's been transferred to Oncology so that I can have better access to her and her records, and I've brought in your team as consulting physicians. House, she's given you the power."

House felt deeply touched. He looked at the date on the bottom of the form, it read over three years ago. She was already married, but knew she still trusted House in this case; to watch and direct the actions of the doctors treating her should something happen that she cannot control.

"Most interesting part is in section B House."

He looked down at the section labeled "Alternate Representatives." Wilson's name was listed as the first alternate in his place, and her husband's was her second. Why did Stacy not trust her husband to make the decision concerning her life and death?

He looked further down the sheet.

_**C) SPECIFIC DIRECTIONS: Please initial the directions below which best expresses your wishes.**_

_SW My health care representative is authorized to direct that artificially provided fluids and nutrition, such as by feeding tube or intravenous infusion, be withheld or withdrawn._

She trusted him still to make the right decision. Her life was literally in his hands, both as a doctor and as her health care proxy. He looked down further in that same section. There were specific directions written by her hand that brought shock and fear back to his heart.

_Should I, Stacy Warner, become dependant on life sustaining systems such as a respirator, external pacemaker, or other such device used to sustain my vital functions, I exclusively allow Gregory House, listed above as my health care proxy, to make decisions as to whether to continue the medical treatments. There are circumstances in which I would not want my life to be prolonged by further medical treatment. In these circumstances, life-sustaining measures should not be initiated and if they have been, they should be discontinued. I recognize that this is likely to hasten my death. In the following, I specify the circumstances in which I would choose to forego life-sustaining measures._

Written just like the constitutional lawyer she is. House looked at the next couple of pages and saw the Instruction Directive attached behind it with a paper clip, again naming him as her proxy. What had she done? Did she realize that after the infarction, he couldn't, shouldn't be trusted in a situation like this? Apparently she didn't realize any of that as she listed him and Wilson above the status of her husband on the form.

House finally looked up at Wilson from the form, the blood draining from his face and his appetite leaving him as the information he had just read sunk in: he was solely responsible for Stacy Warner's fate.


	5. Renderings

OF MOMENTS PAST

by entercreativename

Disclaimer - Wish I owned them, but I don't.

Synopsis - Ever have a dream you can't escape? House is stuck in his mind after a brush with a Vicodin overdose and needs to save the love of his life. But who is she? Please R&R. HouseStacy, HouseCameron, HouseWilson friendship.

* * *

CHAPTER 5 - RENDERINGS

Gregory House sat in his friend's office staring at the document in his hands, the document that gave him the power to play God to Stacy and decide her life or death should her condition worsen. The feeling of the paper was electric with the energy of the trust that Stacy Warner still had for him.

Yet, despite the power in his hands, and Wilson's insistence that he say something, House just sat there, his mind occupied with one other thing: Cameron. In his mind, he could see her still asleep in his office, lying in his chair and in pain. Pain similar to what he had been through. He closed his eyes and saw her restless sleep; she was tossing and turning, pained cries coming softly from her throat once in awhile; it was rude of him not to check on her. He knew he needed to care about the Proxy in his hands, and he needed to care about Stacy's condition, but he couldn't if his mind kept wandering back to _her_.

"House, say something!" Wilson stared at House's blank look in his eyes as he continued to stare at the paper, his food turning cold in front of him.

"I guess you'll be treating her then."

"You can still be involved, sit in on our meetings, consult on the case unofficially, or maybe just _visit_ her."

House heard Wilson's tone change on the word "visit" to a harsher one, a more forceful one. He could tell Wilson didn't get what he was saying, couldn't really tell that his mind wasn't necessarily on Stacy at the moment. Or could it have been Wilson implying that he should treat his patients as patients from the beginning; not like a body with an organism attacking it. Either way, the tone in Wilson's voice implied that House needed to leave his friend's office at that moment to keep from having to defend himself from anything. He stood up.

"Of course House, you _can_ finish your dinner first."

House looked down at the soup and Hunan Chicken in front of him and realized that he had never really been hungry that evening, he wondered what had even compelled him to eat that much soup in the first place. He wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin as he announced, "I'm actually not hungry," turned to the door, and left Wilson alone in his office. He knew that it really wasn't a good excuse to leave, as he knew Wilson knew that he was always hungry, but he really couldn't concentrate on eating at the moment no matter how hard he tried.

As he opened the door to the hallway outside, the hospital took on an eerie quiet as if almost no one was in the building. He looked around from where he stood and saw that indeed, no one was in the waiting area or at the nurses' station. Looking at his watch, 8:14 pm, he realized that not only should there be more people there, but time shouldn't have moved so quickly. He took a few steps towards his office debating on if he should wake Cameron or Stacy to visit; he was curious as to how both women were doing, but the pain from his thigh decided he needed to sit down. He made his way to his now deserted office and sat in his chair; it was still warm from Cameron having sat there most of the afternoon. As he sat down, he decided that Cameron had either finally decided to go home or was off doing something along the lines of being a doctor. Either way, he was happy that his office was deserted.

After settling into a comfortable position in his chair, he realized how badly his leg was hurting him. His excursion to the roof earlier had been a bad idea, despite the fact that it probably saved Stacy's life for if he were not up there at the time, no one would have seen her fall. He reached into his pocket for his trusted Vicodin and opened the bottle to shake out a pill, only to find it lighter and quieter than normal. House looked into the bottle more closely and discovered it was empty; hadn't he just filled it a few days ago? He checked the date and his suspicions were confirmed, which meant he had to find Wilson for a refill.

He slowly got up from his chair and regretted having to move for the ache in his leg seemed to be spreading throughout his body. His hip, spine, right shoulder, everything just ached, and each step seemed to be laborious in nature. He was surprised though that he had not counted the steps from his office to Wilson's like he did for steps in the stairwell. He started to count.

One. 

He had already gone too far, but he knew Wilson was the only one who could get him the script; the other doctors in the building would just assume he was using them as a dealer and he did not want to embarrass himself in front of his team.

Two. 

He heard the crepitus snake up his spine and down his right leg and arm as a sharp pain overcame his entire body; the muscles tightening around nerves cutting off the signals and instead sending sensations of extreme pain to his brain. He stopped and took a deep breath: he would get his bearings and move as fast as he could to Wilson's office and get his help. He took two more deep breaths and managed to contain himself enough to finally move.

Three, four, five… 

He sequenced through the numbers in his head as he ran into the next office to look for his friend, pain becoming second in his mind to the need to find Wilson. He opened the door and burst in, only to find the office deserted. His dinner was still on the tray in front of the couch, the proxy on the cushion next to where he had sat. He stood still taking in the scene: Wilson's lab coat and driving jacket on the coat hook, car keys in the pocket of the latter. Paperwork was arranged neatly on his friend's desk with the pen still open on the top sheet. Wilson's dinner was still there, half-eaten just like House's food. It was as if Wilson had just disappeared.

The lights flickered and everything shook gently. He could have sworn he heard someone, a familiar male voice, in the great distance yell, "He's seizing," but he wasn't sure.

House eased himself onto the couch to rest. He knew he wouldn't be able to go farther at all until his leg settled down, and then, he would search through Wilson's desk and forge his signature on the narcotic pad. He sat down and practiced breathing exercises to help alleviate the pain.

The lights flickered again.

House was now becoming spooked. First, everyone seemed to disappear, and now the hospital was having electrical problems, despite the backup generator. He looked out the window and the storm had subsided into a gentle snowfall. He knew that the weather precluded the hospital to be quiet, however, this was just wrong.

A dark shadowy figure whipped across the open doorway to the hall. He suddenly heard a woman's shriek that shattered all glass in the hospital. Stacy? Cameron? Someone needed help desperately, and he knew he was the only person around to fulfill the role. Adrenaline rushed through his veins at the sound as fight or flight kicked in. He stood up and ran the best he could to where the sound came from, ignoring the broken glass that littered the floor along his path. He turned a corner, and yet another corner, following hallways that resembled labyrinths in a nightmare of death and decay.

He turned a final corner into Stacy's room and heard the same voice in the distance yelling, "He's seizing again. Ativan!"

As he entered, he saw Cameron standing at the foot of Stacy's bed, where his former lover lay shaking in a seizure. Why had she screamed? Did she scream? What was going on?

"Ativan, stat." House commanded the younger doctor to help.

"Cameron! Ativan or did you not hear me?"

The younger doctor trembled but did not move.

House saw Cameron's state and realized that she would be of no help to him at the moment; either she was still high from her Vicodin or something else was terribly wrong with her. He threw his cane to the ground and limped to the medicine cabinet for the Ativan, plunging it into the IV attached to Stacy's arm, emptying the syringe of the medication.

He waited, and within a few moments, the seizure stopped. House looked at Cameron, who had stopped shivering as well, but her gaze was still fixed on a single random spot on the bed. Ironically, and this time he assumed it was all in his head, the lights returned to normal; the power company had apparently fixed the electrical problem.

"Cameron, what happened?" House asked in concern of the two women.

"Cameron?"

House walked over and put his hand on Cameron's shoulder to get her attention. She gasped. "Sir?"

"What happened here Cameron?" He tilted his head to match hers as he asked the question. She was still on the crutches.

"I don't know."

"Where is everyone?"

"I don't know that either."

House looked into Cameron's eyes; they were full of fear and pain. "So, you've also noticed that everyone else is gone?"

Cameron looked at House puzzled. "I noticed it was quiet, and the storm has driven most of the people home. Half of the nurses never reported tonight..."

"That's not what I meant. Where is everyone, _right now_?"

He saw Cameron stop and look around and he knew he was right. No one else could have been in the hospital. First, no one could have screamed in that way to break glass without shattering eardrums. Second, someone surely would have noticed the fact that all of the interior glass on that floor was blown apart. Also, wouldn't someone have seen that figure?

He took a step towards where his cane lay on the floor and a sharp pain raced through his leg; he grimaced and groaned as he fell to the floor, his arms catching the fall.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"Leg. Need Vicodin. Couldn't find Wilson." He was desperate now and didn't care if Cameron saw him this way. He did care if Stacy did, but she was unconscious.

"How many are left in your bottle?"

"None. Wilson needs to rewrite."

He sensed her behind him as he was huddled over himself in pain on the floor. He hated this, allowing someone to see him vulnerable, especially when that someone was a person he either respected, liked, or both. He remembered the days after the infarction and how he didn't want Wilson to see him in pain. He always viewed Wilson as his best friend ever since they met, and he wanted to preserve the friendship for what it was; he didn't want the albatross of his disability to change that. The disability had changed his relationship with Stacy the moment that it happened, and he didn't want that either, but it inevitably happened.

The good thing about Cameron was that this was the only way she had known him, and now, he was beginning to know her in the same sense.

The touch of a soft hand and the rattle of a pill bottle next to his ear disrupted his thoughts. "Sir, have a couple of mine."

Was she actually offering him the drug out of her own pocket?

"You're right House, I really shouldn't have this strong of a dose."

He turned and looked at her. She was standing above him and he was now sitting on the floor, his cane at his side and took the bottle from her hand noting how high of a dosage Cuddy had put her on. "No wonder you're high." He opened the bottle and dry-swallowed two pills.

"You'll have to teach me that trick sometime."

"It's easy but takes practice." He waited a moment to make sure the painkiller was starting to work. "Thank you," he said as he reached for his cane and used Stacy's bed to help himself up off the cold floor. Time to direct his attention elsewhere, "How's Stacy doing?"

"Okay considering that she's lost a lot of blood. We've given her transfusions, but she keeps bleeding them out somehow. Chase and Foreman were trying to find the source of the bleed but couldn't. If we don't find it soon, she may not survive."

"It can't be that hard, she vomited blood. That's a clue, start looking. Get the team together."

"I can't find them House."

"What do you mean 'you can't find them?'" He was agitated now. He wanted to leave, and not see either Cameron or Stacy. He wanted to wallow in self-pity at home in his own bed. He was angry at Stacy for this entire evening. His leg hurt because of her, his heart ached because of her, and he was still at work because of her. If she had never come into his life, he would have been a better person in his mind.

"What I mean sir is that it seems as though no one else is in the hospital except the three of us in this room."

"C'mon, there has to be someone." This agitated him. The hospital took up an entire city block and was four stories tall; yet only three people were there? House thought for a moment, "Stay here and watch the patient, I'll go see if there's anyone else around."

With that, House left Stacy's room to enter the debilitated hospital, frightened of what he might witness.


End file.
